"She’s happy enough in her own way." "I hope ’tis so; yet how can such a lone life be happy?" "The heron be so happy as the starling," said David; "though one’s his own company most times and t’other goes in flocks. She needn’t trouble you. However, since you still think it may be, I’ll forget a thing here and there and help you, though ’tis against my own wish in a way. Of course Rhoda’s good is as much to me as my good have always been to her. I want her to be a happy woman and a married woman too, if Mr. Right comes along. But all the same, I can’t think whatever I should do if Bartley Crocker was to win her and take her off to Canada." "The thing is to make her happy," answered his wife. "Before all else I want to do it. We’re as happy as birds. ’Tis for us, one way or another way, to fill her cup fuller." "We’ll do what we may," he replied. "At least be sure that no man nor woman cares for her more than we do." "And poor Bartley--don’t leave him out. He mustn’t be left out," she said. His mind for the moment was on another issue. "I’ll grant in one particular she’s not too happy," he remarked suddenly. "And that’s over Dorcas. I’m not speaking a word for Dorcas. She behaved very badly and she’s very well out of it, with a lot more luck than she deserves. Screech isn’t what I thought him, and I’ve admitted I was wrong in my opinion of him; but Rhoda can’t pardon her. I’m feared to say much, though she knows, for that matter, that I go so far as to nod to Dorcas now, and give her ’good-morning’ or ’good-night’ when we meet. But Rhoda won’t budge an inch. I suppose ’tis out of our power, Madge, to soften her a little bit in that quarter?" "I’ve tried full often, but I’ll gladly try again," she answered. "And you’re right and put your finger on the sore place, no doubt. You can see so deep into people, David. For certain ’tis being out with her own flesh and blood that makes Rhoda wisht and mournful. But we’ll try yet again to bring ’em together. I know ’tis a great thorn in Dorcas, though she pretends not to care about it." *CHAPTER VII* *A SHARP TONGUE* Timothy Mattacott and his life-long friend, Ernest Maunder, walked and talked together. The latter was on duty, but since the way led over an open space skirted with wild and empty land, the constable relaxed his official manner and gave ear to Mattacott. "I ban’t too easy," confessed the elder man; "for it’s rumoured that along of that silly business on Christmas Eve, when Screech hollered out Stanbury’s name in the fog to Crazywell, and the wrong people heard him, that Mrs. Stanbury’s going out of her mind. Something ought to be done." "Something certainly ought to be done," admitted Maunder. "You couldn’t say strictly that it comes under the head of law, else I should take steps; but we must consider of it before the woman gets worse."